


How to Have A Relationship Without Even Trying

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Oblivious Rodney, Pining, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:38:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sleep-fuzzed and disoriented, Rodney struggles onto his back and actually gets a hand onto his belly before he realizes that there's no more comforting clack and click of keys. Oh. Oh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There are very few things Rodney isn't excellent—or at least significantly better than the average English major—at, and an even fewer number of things that he'll _admit_ to being anything less than stellar at. Picking up signals that are not broadcasted in high-definition, clues the size of a two-by-four disguised with pretty numbers and prettier formula—he's bad at that. Abysmal, one might say, if one were not Rodney, who would never say such a thing about himself, ever.

He thinks it, though. Sometimes. Late at night. When he wonders why the girls in his department, all three brunettes, a tragedy of epic proportions, aren't falling at his feet, lustfully bewildered by his genius.

But. Sometimes.

Rodney's typing feverishly away at his laptop, a fresh cup of coffee steaming enticingly by his elbow and if he moves even a fraction, he's going to knock it over. It's sometime after one am and the rest of the dorm is just getting into that party fever. Saturday night and it's all right, and if they don't _leave_ , the way they usually lemming off, Rodney's going to have to abandon his current research and re-detail his elaborate plans to murder them all in their sleep. Again. 

Across from him, the football jock roommate that Rodney's done his absolute level best to ignore once he proved capable of following simple instructions—"touch my laptop and I promise you won't find the body parts to reattach,"—is lying in bed, reading something thick and pretentious looking. It's a little disconcerting, even if Rodney's grudgingly admitted that having a roommate can be kind of useful. Rodney always forgets his asinine Composition requirement, otherwise, and lately he's taken to dropping off gifts of food, clearly a sacrifice meant to ensure continued roommate harmony because Rodney knows he turns into a pissy bitch when he's hungry, and he _uses_ it.

Except, as previously mentioned, it's _Saturday_.

Dammit, his concentration's totally gone now. Frustrated and impatient, Rodney snaps, "What, did Marie Louise dump you?"

The roommate lifts a caterpillar-thick eyebrow, but doesn't bother to look up from his book. "Marie Louise? That's the best name you could come up with?"

"Well, whatever her name is! Like I care what floozies you date, so long as you understand the rules and—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Roommate sighs, still reading, "don't bring any girls home. I keep telling you not to worry about that."

"Yes, yes, hunks like you get their roommates too, I suppose, threesomes abounding." Rodney's not really sure what goes into the defining of a hunk. It probably has something to do with muscles and defined, chiseled jaws, but mostly Rodney doesn't care. Three years, just three years, and he'll show Lisa Calloway _earning potential_.

Roommate sighs, rolling onto his stomach so that the long, downward slope of his back is highlighted in the softly diffused bed-side lamp he's using. Rodney stares, absently calculating the curve of Roommate's spine that can somehow slouch _and_ produce such a clean, lean line and—"Are you warm? I can open a window."

"And listen to you complain about how cold you are? For a guy as eats as much as you, McKay, you're damned skinny."

"I realize that it must be difficult to stay on one topic, given you have the attention span of a _flea_ , but—"

"Keep the window closed," Roommate interrupts. "I'm fine like this."

Shirtless. In the middle of January, when there's been a massive Bostonian ice storm followed by an amazing drop in temperature and everyone's confined to the dorms because they're the only ones with working generators, and the administration has no interest in dealing with stupid children who can't figure out that hypothermia is not cool, and frost-bitten fingers really do _fall off_. "Oh," Rodney says abruptly. "Right. That's why everyone's still here."

"Yes, McKay," Roommate says, long suffering without actually sounding annoyed, an interesting trick, "that's why the whole world is still here to annoy you."

A flurry of pounding on their door interrupts whatever else might be said, the thin wood rattling against a jamb already rotted through. "Shep! Hey, _Shep!_ What the hell are you doing in there! Come out, man! Ice party!"

"Yeah," a female voice chimes in, slow and seductive and clearly drunk out of her mind, lust making her sound thick and gluey, "c'mon, John. Come play with us. What, that crazy science hermit won't let you out?"

 _Crazy science hermit?_ Rodney's too apoplectic to do more than splutter incoherently, which Roommate—John, it seems—actually looks away from his book to watch, smiling indulgently. "I'm asleep," he hollers, light seeping through the porous edges of the door, spilling accusingly into the room. "Go away!"

The female makes a pouting noise, and Rodney can just imagine how she's throwing her whole body in the act, curves melting all over as she slides and slithers and sways, and Rodney feels himself tighten embarrassingly because she's not there for _him_ , even if she really should be, and he doesn't even _like_ her, because he's pretty sure that's Trixie from down the hall. Trixie, whose real name is actually Tracy except she hates it and wants to become a stripper, so she's demanded everyone call her Trixie to see if that works on a trial-basis.

Rodney's not quite to the point where he'll offer her cash, but he's close. She's _hot_.

"Jo-ohn," Trixie whines, and suddenly the bloom is off, because that's the _most annoying sound in the whole entire world_.

John looks up sharply, eyes clear and steady for the first time all night, and then he smiles disarmingly, like he's sharing something bright and beautiful and just theirs for the perusing. "Sleeping!" he says again, switching off his light for emphasis.

Lost in the blue glow from his laptop, Rodney blinks against the darkness closing in around him, listening as John shuffles around incomprehensibly before finally finding a comfortable position. "Night, Rodney."

"You don't mind if I keep working, do you?" It's not what he wants to say. What he wants to say is, _I'm going to keep working, so just deal with it_ , but those aren't the words on his tongue and he can't seem to change the direction mid-stream.

"Nah," John says comfortably. "Doesn't bother me. G'night."

And just like that, Rodney's alone with the noise of college students bumping and banging together like the insides of a pin-ball machine, all loud shrieks and booming, pounding feet painting shadows underneath the door, and above it all of that, the slow, steady breathing of Rodney's roommate, who is named John, and is completely different from Rodney's hazy, distracted impressions of an entire semester previously.

* * *

"— _unbelievable_ ," Rodney snarls, actually picking up a book to throw. He won't, of course. Even books written by two-bit hacks who have no idea how gravity works, let alone the theories behind a black hole, aren't worthy of being thrown carelessly into a wall. Rodney respects books, loves the smooth, slick feel of their spines against his palms, paper with their dangerous potential for cuts gliding soft and padded against his fingers as he turns the pages.

"Relax, McKay, you're gonna give yourself a coronary." John's actually sitting up—still slouching, some how, my god, his lower back must _hurt_ —eying Rodney with true worry. "Seriously, you're freaking me out. Take a deep breath or something."

A deep breath? Rodney can't take a deep breath, he wants to scream and kill because not only has he been passed over for the lab time he desperately needs, but he can't even exact retribution: Wegman will know it's him even if it's _not_ him, and god help Drake if he actually goes through with whatever that evil little smirk signified, because if he gets Rodney in trouble over nothing, they will _never find the body_ , ever.

And Rodney still won't have lab-time.

John's off his bed, suddenly crowding into Rodney's personal space like he has every right to be there. "Okay, that's enough. Sit."

Rodney's knees are shoved into the edge of his mattress and they bend, tumbling him down onto springs that nightly do arcane, torturous things to Rodney's back. The book is carefully removed from his fingers, and a few seconds later there's the suction-pop sound of their tiny cube refrigerator being opened, and something cold and buttery smooth, the way only chilled polymers can really be, is pressed into his lax palm.

"Drink," John orders, frowning over him. He even crosses his damned arms, glaring, until out of sheer frustration, Rodney yanks open the top and gulps half the bottle down in three huge, messy swallows. His throat hurts afterward, and he hates the sinking cold feeling as the water travels through his body—but he has to admit that after a few seconds of concentrating his hatred on that sensation, he actually starts calming down a little.

The next swallow isn't quite so messy.

Rodney doesn't moderate his glare, because it's not like he'll ever admit that helped, giving his roommate an evil, suspicious eye. "And you've been possessed by the spirit of every mother who isn't my own, when, exactly?"

Some of the tension in John's shoulders evaporates at Rodney's question, the infuriating, unflappably charming smirk returning, and even though it's as fake and plastic as the bottle he's clutching, Rodney knows his roommate is pleased. "Do you know how much paperwork is involved when your roommate keels over?" John asks, slinking back to his own side of the room, draping himself over his bed. Said bed is far too good for him to throw himself down on it, like a normal person.

John's sheets are blue and flannel and very, very soft. Rodney knows this because he took them out of the drier once, as a well-recompensed favor.

"Think you can be quiet now?" John asks, pulling another thick, pretentious-looking book out of no where and parting the sea of pages somewhere in the middle. "I need to finish this before my three o'clock class."

"What? Oh, yes. Of course, I'll just—uh, the typing, it—"

"Doesn't bother me, no. Thanks, buddy."

It's only after Rodney gets his laptop booted up, working on what he can while that _thief_ Xie is making time with Rodney's supercomputer, that he realizes that his shoulder is cold. It's cold because John had put his hand there, and then left it there for as long as possible. All the way through guiding Rodney to the bed, then replacing it when Rodney was too busy gulping water to lecture about personal space and inappropriate touching and going to the RA, god dammit.

His shoulder tingles. He swears it's uncomfortable and mutters darkly about communicable diseases and rashes and transferred radioactive substances, and starts looking up homeopathic remedies for a tingling shoulder while pages whisper as they're turned and turned, white noise that eventually lulls Rodney into a kind of stupor that lasts until John carefully closes the door behind him, _click_.

* * *

Rodney's knuckles are white. They ache, actually, but Rodney's only aware of that distantly because right then, the whole _world_ is distant. "Oh god," he says, breathless and squeaky and not giving a damn. "Oh, _god_ come over here. No, wait, don't come here! Go away, go far away, leave me alone."

John pauses in whatever he's doing that creates that shuffling sound, then pads over to hover behind Rodney's shoulder. He's warm and really close and Rodney is definitely not paying attention to that. "What are you—oh, hey." John whistles, low and amazed. "That's, uh."

"Hot," Rodney agrees, nodding as hard as he can without taking his eyes off the scene outside his window. Their dorm faces a cul-de-sac of trees and trash cans and a bench that's completely out of place, a relic from when this was part of the green and not a desperate attempt to house and warm a student body that grows exponentially. On that bench are two girls, taking advantage of mother nature's schizophrenia and welcoming the suddenly warm weather by taking off their clothes and touching each other inappropriately.

Conveniently forgetting that the gnarled curtain of branches above their heads doesn't keep out the sky, or the three windows that overlook the tiny area.

"Oh," Rodney says, swallowing wetly as one girl lifts her leg straight up in the air, holding it while the other girl laughs and takes advantage. "Oh, oh, this is better than porn."

John makes a noise, which Rodney ignores. The only noises he cares about are the gentle, breathy moans that rise like smoke up to their window, snatches of moans and conversations that fade in and out like a radio signal, just enough to be tantalizingly hot.

Rodney continues to ignore it until the warmth he's kind of gotten used to disappears. What the—porn! Free lesbian porn, live right beneath their window! What kind of man doesn't watch that? Unless, oh, of course, John wants to join them. Rodney's well aware that a bevy of women follow after John like he's got Pan's flute hidden under his jeans instead of a fairly average sized cock, and the promises they don't have the courtesy to whisper when they're trying to persuade John to go out, with mixed success. It _completely_ figures that John thinks he can just slide into the tangle of breasts and nipples and slowly working fingers, probably convincing them to move to a better spot since not only is John God's gift to women, he's also a _gentleman_ and probably thinks voyeurism is dirty and perverted.

Rodney gets so worked up over the disappearance of his free, hot, real-life lesbian porn that he actually looks away so he can glare at John—who is still in the room. Who is, in fact, rummaging through his backpack, and pulling out a rainbow of notebooks and a veritable blizzard of papers which he stacks neatly on his bed in three piles.

The world turns upside down. "But," Rodney hears himself say, "porn?"

John spares him an indulgent look that's all wrong, all bleak and brittle-bitter on the edges, glass that hasn't been tempered properly, a fragile shell that won't last under the slightest bit of pressure. "Did they stop?"

"Uh." No, no, they haven't stopped, because one of the girls is making extreme headway into the Most Flexible Woman of the Year position, contorting herself around so she can lift her hips towards her laughing partner. "No, there's still porn." Really _hot_ porn, oh, God, she's totally going down on her, on whoever the her is, and it's so, so hot.

"It's okay," John says. "I'll just, uh, go down to the lounge for a half hour or so."

What? "What?" Rodney says and then it's Newton's apple, conking a nice egg onto Rodney's head and he's on his feet, finger stabbing out accusingly before he realizes it. "Oh, my god, you're _gay!"_

John freezes. A half second later, Rodney does too, caught in a weird position with his arm still outstretched and feeling very much like a fool.

"Is that going to be a problem?" John asks.

Yes! Yes, of course it's a problem, because there's a gay person living in Rodney's room and who knows what kind of perverted, twisted, deviant things he's been doing, or thinking or, oh, god, thinking about _Rodney_ and what if he wakes up one night to find he's got uninvited hands in places he would really rather issue invitations for, unless the person is blonde and hot and smart enough to recognize that Rodney's still smarter than she is and—

"No, of course not," Rodney says. "Um. Are you gay? Because there was, uh. Donna? And—um. The one with the nose ring?"

John shrugs. He's so rigid that his back has to be quivering under his _Aqua Teen Hunger Force_ t-shirt, black and stretched lovingly thin. "Jennifer. And, sure, I like girls."

 _But_ hangs heavy in the air, and Rodney suddenly wishes he hadn't figured this out, hadn't finally realized this nebulous oddness that's been between him and his roommate, because now that he knows he's going to obsess about it because he's Rodney and that's what he _does_. "You like girls."

"Yeah." There's nothing definable, but suddenly John's relaxing, smiling only a little tightly as he reshuffles his papers. "Girls are good."

"And boys."

"Boys are good, too," John says, which is a lie even _Rodney_ can figure out, but allows it.

Below the window, the girls start going really hot and heavy. Rodney wants to turn back and watch, wants the tight feeling of his jeans stretched too tightly across an erection he can't free, the frustration almost as sweet as the way the blonde had writhed before, twisting effortlessly into the other's mouth. "And... two girls?"

John's grin quirks, but he's got a sheaf of papers underneath one arm, a text book cradled in the other and there's a pen tucked behind his ear. It makes him look rakish and untouchable and far, far away. "I'm still a guy, McKay. Two girls are _always_ good. Have fun, okay?"

"Yeah," Rodney says. He stares at the door until there's a sharp, almost sobbing cry, which propels him back to the window, hand scrabbling for his fly because the other girl is demanding to be fingered soon, soon, oh god, please _soon_ and it's free, hot, lesbian porn unspooling right below his window. Rodney's not going to allow anybody's revelations get in the way of that, thank you.

* * *

Rodney waits for the changes, the awkward, uncomfortable dance of two people who know too much about each other. It never happens. John comes back later that night, smelling of perfume and aftershave, grinningly stupid-drunk, and Rodney's so annoyed that he forgets to be anything else. He rants without a trace of tension as he shoves John through a series of glasses of water, yanking his shoes off with more force than is really necessary, but really, he's a _roommate_ , not a _keeper_ , this should so not be his job.

John snores like a chain saw. For three nights in a row. Rodney's so angry that everything else slips his mind.

He does remember, of course. He remembers when he's downloading porn, or when he wakes up half-hard, shuffling into his bathrobe. But Rodney's always hyper-paranoid that someone might walk in when he's downloading porn, and there's a reason he keeps a bathrobe despite being nineteen and a senior in college, working on his master's concurrently. The thoughts are fleeting, just another part of the jumble Rodney doesn't bother filtering, and relegated to the unimportant part of his brain: the one that takes notes just in case a hot blonde happens to wander into his field of vision.

John likes boys. He also likes airplanes that break the sound barrier, Russian literature, and pin-stripe boxers that have a hole right beneath his ass. These are things Rodney has observed and doesn't give a damn about; one more item on the list is not a problem.

Except. _Except_.

As the days turn over and his projects ramp up, Rodney's thinking more about sex. Specifically, the sex he desperately wants and isn't getting. He's busy, too busy to worry about someone who wants to be wined or dined or told she looks hot, but Rodney knows he's stressed to operatic proportions since he's got to actually share time with imbeciles who don't deserve funding, let alone access to any of Rodney's favorite toys—or any of his toys, really, even if they aren't his toys so much as the department's—and sex is a great stress reliever and he wants that very, _very_ badly.

Also, he's _horny._ Really, dog-pantingly, horny.

He's masturbating, of course, because he _breathes_ , but it's gradually becoming more difficult to get off, less satisfying when he does, and that's so utterly terrifying that he's afraid he's getting a complex about it. One day he's going to just run down to the infirmary and demand he's given viagra or cyalis or whatever the little blue pill of choice is, except he doesn't have _time_ because almost all his waking hours are in the lab, or the library, or his dorm, where he pathetically whimpers at John until John brings him food and pats his shoulder and occasionally bullies him into a shower and washing his clothes and whines that he has his own work, dammit, so this better be appreciated.

Then Spring Break arrives.

Rodney likes Spring Break because it doesn't mean more lab-time—infuriatingly—because none of _those_ assholes leave, but all the stupid, frittering children that inhabit Rodney's dorm and invade Rodney's bathroom and Rodney's cafeteria _do_. The campus becomes empty, only the few, the dedicated and insane rattling around in corners that are dusty from the kick-back of students fleeing to places where the sun still exists.

It's like a breath of fresh, recycled air. Rodney heads to lab, happily prepared to use the blackmail he's acquired on Xie, only to discover the most devastating notice written in large, black font on a plain white piece of paper, taped to the door.

_Lab Closed For Two Days. Yes, This Means You. If You Try To Break In, You Will Be Arrested. Signed, The Physics Department._

Traitors.

Crushed, Rodney slumps back to his dorm, crawling into his unmade bed. His life is over. He is adrift, cut off for two whole days, and even though it's eleven in the morning, he grumps and grumbles his way into a nap.

Wakes up to the sound of typing.

Groggy, Rodney forces gummy eyes open. "Thought you're leaving," he slurs.

"Change of plans," John says easily. "You don't mind me sticking around, do you? Besides, I thought this was your week to live at the lab."

There's rant about administrators and their ridiculous requirements that students have _supervision_ , but he must be more tired than he thinks, because all he says is, "Sure, yeah, course. Just gonna jerk off."

Sleep-fuzzed and disoriented, Rodney struggles onto his back and actually gets a hand onto his belly before he realizes that there's no more comforting clack and click of keys. Oh. _Oh._

His eyes fly open. "Um."

Awkward. Beyond awkward, really, because nothing's changed, they're both too lazy, except that now Rodney doesn't jerk off when John's in the room. Ever. It hasn't been a problem since Rodney's not interested in giving a free show for guys who _don't_ care, but doing it once he knows that maybe, perhaps John _might_ —it feels too much like a tease. He's pretty sure John doesn't even like him; there's been only one guy that Rodney's guessed with 73% certainty is more than just a buddy, and he's a carbon copy of John—pretty, charming, affable, and on the football team. His name is Lorne and Rodney has absolutely _not thought_ about what they might do or look like together.

But still. It's been Rodney's pathetic attempt at not being the asshole he knows he is.

John turns slowly in his chair, the worn-out wood creaking painfully under his weight. "You, uh. Haven't been doing that much."

Rodney's eyes go wide. "What? How would you—are you—oh, my god you were _watching!"_

It's confirmation of his worst fears, but seeing John duck his head, face flushed under the crazy, floppy cow-licks of his hair, Rodney doesn't actually feel outraged or violated. Mostly he feels awkward and unhappy and a little bit curious.

John clears his throat. "You. You take longer in the bathroom, when you. And you shout less before your first cup of coffee."

Oh, god. John knows his _habits_. Accurately, too, since Rodney knows a good morning jerk off is the only thing that keeps him from being homicidal before caffeine, and he's learned the hard way that he has to shower _before_ operating the highly illegal coffee machine that doesn't have an automatic-start function.

Rodney's saving for that model. He _dreams_ of that model.

"Oh." It's a bad idea. It's a horrible, rude, petty idea, but Rodney's heard himself described in those terms most of his life. He's immune to them and their meanings, but even he's horrified when actually opens his mouth to say, "Since you are, uh, yeah, I don't suppose you—"

He manages to stop himself before completing the question. He's blushing bright crimson, cheeks hot enough to run several state's worth of electricity, and the bed could just swallow him whole any time now.

Oh, god, bad thought, _bad thought._

"Sorry," he forces through clenched teeth. "Sorry. Ignore that. Bad day, bad dreams, just—ignore that."

John doesn't say anything. He doesn't say it for long enough that Rodney risks opening his eyes. John is looking at him, eyes focused completely on him, and licking his lips almost subconsciously. Rodney flashes to some early morning wake ups, blearily glaring across the room at the lump underneath John's covers, the one that's rolling into the bed, moaning in that high, soft way that means it's from dreams and not reality, lips wet and glistening as they're licked over and over, John breathing open-mouthed in needy little pants.

Rodney's tried not to read anything into that. Last semester it'd just been one more annoyance in a long list of roommate-related annoyances. Now, it's something he blocks out as quickly as he can, except John's doing the _exact same thing_ right this minute, and there's only so much a man with a functional cock can take.

"God," Rodney says, because he's already attempted to ask and even _he_ has limits. But then John's getting up and crossing the floor towards him and the words come tumbling out. "It's not like it's a problem, right? I mean, I mean, I know, this is bad, and wrong, and unfair, I get that, but you—you _like_ this kind of thing, or at least I think you're supposed to, and oh, god I need it so badly, you've no idea, please, please, could you just—"

"Shut up." It's an order, wet and rough, and it clamps Rodney's mouth shut before his brain can respond. John's hands are big and a little damp as he tugs the blankets down, running up Rodney's legs and over his thighs and hips before sliding under his arm pits and _yanking_.

Rodney yelps, he can't help it, and again when his back hits the very cold wall. "Hey!" he says, then stops before John can tell him to shut up again.

John's on his knees, dark eyes fixed at the join between Rodney's legs, and he's licking his damned lips again.

"Oh god," Rodney chants. "Oh god, oh god, oh god."

"Shouldn't you wait until _after_ to name me?" John quips, but his hands are unsteady as they tug the y-front of his boxers open, drawing Rodney's hard cock through. "I mean, I could be really bad at this."

Rodney has had exactly two blow jobs in his life. The first was from April Bingham in grade 10, who had wanted to practice on someone she didn't care about and somehow had learned that Rodney was slightly bigger than her first choice, Roger Shapiro. It had been short, perfunctory, and pretty bad. He'd come in under a minute. His second blow job came from a freshman girl who'd been too drunk to realize Rodney was not, in fact, the ‘Jimmy' she kept moaning for, and had been grabby and persistent despite Rodney's—possibly half-hearted—attempts to get away. She'd used teeth. A lot of teeth.

"Oh," Rodney says, breathless and rushed, "I really doubt that."

John's mouth curves slivery and lush, before opening just enough to brush against the head of Rodney's cock, pursing and releasing his lips in less of a kiss and more of a test of girth and texture, nudging against foreskin that's rapidly pulling back, and the _hottest_ thing Rodney has ever seen. The hand around the base tightens, shifting Rodney into a different angle and then abruptly he's in a hot, wet mouth, lips sealed air-tight around the base, and there's an agile tongue doing things to the head of his cock that Rodney's only dreamed about based on really good porn.

John's slow, methodical as he uses lips and tongue and occasionally the hard, awkward rub of his nose to categorize every part of Rodney's dick, discovering which spots make him jerk, stiff and tight, which spots make him melt into a humiliating yowl of enjoyment, which make him go breathlessly excited, thigh muscle jumping under John's restraining palm. It's terribly frustrating, except in the way that it's almost scientifically exact and that's so hot that Rodney submits, allowing his cock to be John's newest experiment, measured and learned and filed away, while Rodney is licked and sucked and carefully, occasionally nibbled.

Then, almost abruptly, John backs off enough to raise his eyes. "Are you. Uh. Do you—?"

Rodney brain fires at an even faster rate than normal, pairing John's question with what the corollary might be and, "Yes," he gasps, nodding hard enough that his neck hurts. "God, yes, I get tested—routine, every month, you _know_ I do, you call me a hypochondriac even after that stupid curry dinner you got me when you know I—"

"Cool," John interrupts.

And then he sucks Rodney's cock.

This isn't an exploration, a careful examination—this is hot and greedy, slurping obscenely as John goes down until his lips meet the edge of his hand, cheeks hollowing until Rodney can see the rounded contours of his cock inside John's mouth, then back up until he's all the way off, scraping his teeth against the glans as he goes. This is deep, hard suction and a tongue that moves everywhere, pointed or soft against the tip, broadly rough against the heavy vein underneath as John bobs up and down, taking a little more of Rodney each time.

This is pornographically good, better than any girl Rodney's ever watched, because John is all slick moving skin, his free hand rubbing deep and steady into Rodney's leg, counter-rhythm to the down-down-up-breath that he's adopted effortlessly. Rodney wants to say something about practice, about skill, but all he can do is moan incoherently because his roommate is _sucking his cock_ , and sliding his hand down and in so the tips of his fingers can graze against Rodney's balls, light enough to be a damned feather, and Rodney comes like a ten-car wreck, spilling everywhere.

Dazed, he stares down blankly as John dives after the release he's missed, licking the crease of Rodney's hip shiny and clean, before doing the same to his own full, pink-swollen lips.

Rodney's cock makes a valiant—although ultimately futile—effort to show its appreciation of that sight.

"Oh," he says. There are words and... things he should probably acknowledge, but Rodney's bad at this and honestly, he feels kind of stunned. Not disappointed—oh, _god_ , no—but like there should've been something more, maybe some touching on his part or a "suck it" or two, so he sits with his cock lying limp and wet against his thigh, hands uselessly clenched, John still on his knees before him, and doesn't know what to do.

"I'm gonna." John jerks his thumb towards the door and Rodney nods, eager for some kind of conversational direction, saying, "Yes, yes, of course," and Rodney doesn't know when John comes back because awkwardness be damned, that was a _really good_ blow job and he's asleep in five minutes.

* * * 

John Sheppard really, _really_ likes sucking cock. 

It takes them a week to fumble back into less painfully uncomfortable patterns, and by then Rodney's desperate again. He goes through an agonizing Sunday, waiting for John to come home from where ever he's gone off to with a crowd of heavily-perfumed women, coming home smeared with make up and glitter in his hair. Rodney wants to ask what the hell John thinks he's doing, getting in touch with his transsexual side, but when he opens his mouth it's to say, "So, um, I was wondering if you—" and John slides liquid and beautiful back to his knees, a crazy halo of light reflecting off his clothes like a glitter-ball, sucking Rodney's cock in with no preliminary, no hesitation and oh god, _god_.

After that, John's not uncomfortable around him anymore.

Rodney still is, blundering painfully through requests, but John's started to smirk and even laugh at those, crazy donkey-chuckles that make Rodney puff up with humiliated anger before he realizes that John's kissing his belly and nuzzling into his cock, pin-pricking Rodney into a deflated, sullen, "Yes, okay, be like that then."

And John says, "Yeah, thanks. I will," and sucks him so slow and teasing that Rodney's _sobbing_ for relief before John finally lets him come.

Rodney's never really been clear on what John does, aside from read terribly boring Russian literature, possibly to make Rodney froth and rant. He has no idea what his major is, his focus of concentration, or why he's reading _literature_ at a science school in the first place, but he's pretty sure John's current major is Rodney's cock. 

He almost never says no—except that one time Rodney doesn't think about, because he's never seen his dorky, affable roommate look homicidal before and never wants to again—just smiles and goes with it, spending way more time than Rodney expects learning every trick, every touch. He knows how to make Rodney go off like a firecracker in under thirty seconds, if they don't have time, and seems to really love lazy mornings when he can spend hours and hours with Rodney sweaty and dazed and too desperate to even talk, held back by a careful touch here, a tug there, until Rodney's jaw aches in sympathy and he has to start thrusting, riding into John's throat until he comes and comes.

Twice Rodney's woken up to John shaking his shoulder going, "C'mon, McKay, wake up, I _wanna_ , please," in a whine that should really not be sexy but is.

He never asks for anything in return, never even sticks around to jerk himself hot and hard and fast afterward, just smiles and heads for the bathroom. At first, it's nice because _Rodney's_ not gay. It's the perfect arrangement, John gets what he wants and Rodney gets spectacular orgasms on a regular basis and everybody's happy. Right?

Yeah. Right.

Three weeks in and Rodney's obsessed with when and how John comes afterward, if he showers, filling his mouth with mineral-tainted water to replace the bitter-sour of Rodney's release, hands flying on his own cock until the water washes everything away. If he jerks off when Rodney's not there, lying on Rodney's bed naked and sweaty, his own scent lost in the general sweat-sex smell that Rodney's frantic to try and air out, jerking come all over his belly, tasting it because he John absolutely loves the taste and feel of come, hot on his tongue, and will go to often bewildering lengths to make sure he gets Rodney's.

He starts spying, forcing himself to stay awake after John sucks him clean and empty, sneaking in the bathroom in the hopes of seeing something. Rodney hates the bathroom with its broken, mold-infused tiles, the curtains that never cover enough except the one shower tucked in the back, the one that Rodney will wait to use if he can't bully the person out entirely. That's the one John uses too, of course, safely hidden behind the one curtain that doesn't droop and offer glimpses of things that normally would send Rodney screaming.

He sets up cameras in their room, hidden contraptions that never seem to have the right angle, or end up getting covered with someone's flying shirt. Rodney suspects that John knows because there's _nothing_ , not even heavy breathing the entire thirty six hours he was gone once. He starts fretting that it's him, that he's not pretty enough, that this really is a pity fuck and not the mutually satisfying arrangement Rodney thought it was, that John's just using him, stringing him along while he plans something horrifying, so horrifying that Rodney's run out of possible scenarios because none of them are horrifying _enough_. Not even the one where _Rodney's_ on camera, cleverly hidden despite an exhaustive search one manic 3 am, exposed to the whole school.

He doesn't stop talking about girls, and John doesn't stop going out with his friends who he might be fucking, and despite Rodney's misgiving it's all really just very... easy. It's nice.

May is charging around the corner, beckoning Rodney with its promise of no more classes but the ones he elects to take and long, long hours at the lab. He's there more and more, coming home for hand-jobs and blow-jobs and John's drawling, "Christ, McKay, sleep on something that isn't a sofa, I don't _care_ about your damned back."

"Are you doing this for money?" Rodney asks once, when he's drunk with pleasure, too weak to censor the things even he knows better than to blurt. John is holding his breath, all of Rodney's cock in his mouth, eyes closed in blissful contentment between Rodney's thighs. "I mean, I know I'm going to be worth millions, probably very soon, and if you want some I'll _give_ you some, really, but I just can't figure out what you—oh, oh, _god_!"

John's eyes had flickered open, haunting and green and brighter than the leaves slowly budding on the trees around them, and started sucking so ferociously that Rodney came and came and promptly forget that entire line of questioning because he's petty, and arrogant and bad with people, not _stupid_.

But he can't shake the feeling that this is wrong, somehow. Sure, John's gay and clearly into cock-sucking in a serious way, but is there something deficient about him? Can he never come, so he contents himself with giving Rodney as many orgasms as possible? That doesn't seem likely, since he gets boners as frequently as Rodney does, but there's nothing else that makes _sense_. He's left floundering for medical mysteries he doesn't care about, because clearly that's the only reason John isn't asserting his male-endowed rights and demanding Rodney turn over for him.

Or turn over for Rodney, maybe, and Rodney sits up straight in his lab, computers flickering like crazy Christmas lights all around, and calls himself ten kinds of idiot.

John's in the room, of course, head bent over a paper he's laboriously retyping into his notebook, dressed in a t-shirt and boxers and looking as normal as humanly possible. He isn't sexy or alluring or even _pretty_ , and none of that matters.

"I'm not gay," Rodney announces—belatedly shoving the door behind him closed. It's three o'clock on a Thursday and no one's around, but one can't ever be too careful. "I'm not gay, I don't like men, and are you sick? Is there some syndrome or rare, medical mystery?"

After almost eight months John's used to verbal whiplash and doesn't even twitch. "Hello to you too, Rodney. I know you're not gay, I never said you were. And what the fuck? I'm not sick."

"Then why the hell aren't you tying me down and having your way with me? We've been doing this for weeks and you haven't, uh, you haven't—" Rodney's bravado fails him, tongue curling over the word ‘come' because it's one thing to beg John for orgasms or wet a finger in his own release, letting John suck it clean, but it's another to actually flat out accuse someone of some kind of absolutely bizarre martyr-complex.

John stops typing, the sudden absence of clack and click and clickity-clack echoing in Rodney's ears. "You want me to get off, McKay?" The way he says it doesn't sound like _come_ so much as _leave you alone_.

"Well _aren't_ you? I mean, I realize that gay people like you must like sucking dick because you _definitely_ seem to, especially mine, and don't think I'm not highly appreciative of that, I am, and I don't want this to stop, but I wouldn't, um, mind. If after you. You know. Took care of yourself. Also."

John's fingers are long and curved around the keys, knuckles shadowed from the monitor's light. It's hard to read his face like this, lantern-chin tightening and releasing as he thinks about God knows what. Rodney takes a step further into the room, mentally reminding himself to let John think, let John _talk_ , because he doesn't, often, when he's not trying to convince Rodney of the beauty of some stupid, impossible science-fiction film. Rodney sits on the bed because he doesn't know what else to do, hands hanging limply over the sides.

It's incredibly awkward.

John turns around in his chair, tilting his head back so his nose looks even bigger and more goose-like. "You want to watch me get off, Rodney?"

Does he? Well, yes, a little. "Yes? Also, that's not what I mean and you know it."

There's the beginning of something crazy and wild, like supernovas careening at light speed in John's eyes as he leans forward. "You wanna jerk _me_ off?"

"I—well, it's just a _penis_ , and I know you don't have any communicable diseases, so it would probably be the honorable thing to—oof."

Suddenly Rodney has a lap full of John, smirking down at him and biting his nose when Rodney struggles instinctively.

"That's a puppy trick," Rodney accuses, too stunned to flail.

"Worked, didn't it?"

"Well, yes, I suppose one might say it did, but that's beside the oh, oh, hands." Hands on his shoulders and his back, places John's never touched before, sliding around to palm his nipples, then skate down his sides, grabbing as much of his ass that John can, given Rodney's seated position with what feels like three hundred pounds of roommate pushing him into the bed. "Oh," Rodney says, eyes fluttering.

It feels _so good_.

"Touch me," John says, wet and rough, an aural injection of sex and Rodney obeys. He lets his big hands curve around John's waist, feeling oven-hot skin and the hard bumps of his ribs, the way he's breathing quick and fast, stomach muscles expanding into the heel of Rodney's hand and thumb.

"Is—is this okay?"

John laughs, his stupid, annoying, horrible laugh, tilting Rodney's head up and muffling the sound with a kiss as slow and lazy as the slowest of his blow-jobs, introducing Rodney's tongue to his mouth, then his tongue to Rodney's.

"Also," Rodney pants, "still not actually gay."

"Are you going to whine about this forever now?"

"—but," Rodney continues, instinctively leaning up to nip John's lower lip— _shut up, speaking now_ , "I've always been a really fast learner and I'm pretty sure I know at least some of the mechanics of what makes a good blow job and I'd very much like to try and give you one."

"Yeah?" John's smile is childishly brilliant, blue sky appearing after months of clouds, doing crazy, frightening things to Rodney's insides. "You just want to fuck me, don't you?"

Rodney makes a pained noise, hips jerking upward. John laughs and kisses him and Rodney doesn't mention that he can taste the _finally_ against John's teeth, because it's not necessary. Yes, fine, he's an idiot who clearly needs to be whacked over the head.

"Why'd you wait so long?" Rodney asks, later when his jaw hurts like hell and his mouth feels swollen and fuzzy and too big and John still hasn't come yet, instead patiently coaxing Rodney through the application of theory. "I mean, I would've done this _weeks_ ago."

John shrugs, but his face is tight. "Some guys won't," is all he says and Rodney gets so annoyed that he swallows John as deep as he can, ignoring the way the back of his throat feels battered and his eyes sting and he's pretty sure there's drool all over his chin. He just sucks and tries to swallow, not stopping when he chokes, because _really_.

Later still, John's lowering himself onto Rodney's cock, his stomach ridged and crunching from the position, knees bent up and possibly painfully on either side of him. Rodney reaches out to tug his balls, cupping and toying with them and realizes he can do this, he can touch and taste whenever he _wants_. "Oh, my god, we're dating," he blurts.

John's too busy moaning to laugh, but as he starts to move up and down, leg muscles flexing underneath tight, wiry curls that feel really good and scratchy against Rodney's legs, he manages, "Took you long enough."

"Oh, my god," Rodney repeats. "You're not going home for the summer, are you?" John is _bouncing_ on him, easily taking Rodney's eager, off-rhythm thrusts, hands white knuckled against velvety blue flannel sheets. "And oh, oh do other people _know?"_

"Most of the dorm," John says, then erases Rodney's absolute horror at having dated some for almost _six weeks_ without knowing it, without ever touching in return and dammit he has a lot of orgasms to make up for, by adding, "and I already took care of our housing forms for the summer, Rodney. I made you sign those last week, remember?"

He doesn't, but that's okay, because he's coming inside of John's smooth, hot ass, slick with lube from Rodney's fingers, and John is moaning, head going back as he grabs for his cock. Rodney bats his hand away, closing his own fist around it, pulling and tugging and thinking _yes, yes, yes_ as John comes all over them both.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a significantly darker look at what might've been if John was more passive and Rodney even more of a bastard.

"John!" Three girls flutter around him, painted butterflies with their faces made up in lurid reds and greens and blues no sky has ever been. "John, you have to!"

They've already left finger-marks on his shoulders, golds and silvers like tiger stripes, vanishing into the camouflage of his tank-top, echoed with the metallic greens that are scattered into his eyes, his hair, even his _ears_. Jacy's on his lap, grinding her heat into his stomach and it's all he can do not to pull away. _Girls are good_ , he had told Rodney, and it's true, they are. Just not for sex, mostly, and especially when it's clear his jeans are going to be damp when he finally pries her off him.

"Hey," he says when his lips are painted pink and glossy, tingling from something in the mixture until they're fuller.

"I want your mouth," Jacy moans at him, and for once, it's not sexual at all. She hates how littler her own mouth his, her lips practically nonexistent, and she can't wait until she's twenty one and doesn't need Daddy's permission for cosmetic surgery.

"Sorry," he says, grinning lazily because anything else is too much for these frittering, fluttering air-heads, "can't have them. Already in use."

He's still not sure why he said yes, why he let his knees ache, mouth raw and stinging after Rodney came. He knows why he vanished into the bathroom, hiding in the farthest shower stall with the water set on scalding, mouth clamped shut while he swallowed and swallowed, running his tongue over teeth and palate and the inside of his lips, hunting down every last trace while his hand flew over his cock.

He's _really_ not sure why he's been avoiding Rodney, except Rodney's avoiding him. That's understandable -- straight boys rarely take it well. But he'd thought.

Well. He'd thought wrong.

Eventually the girls de-tangle themselves and John's allowed to dance with the lights strobing pink and purple around them, the music so loud he can't hear, and no one gives a damn that his pants are wet because everyone assumes their own private fantasies, John's own wishes be damned. He kisses girls and boys with equal abandon, not the slut others claim he is, but easy in his own body, his own wants, and sharing touches like the words he gives out so freely, the ones that never mean anything at all.

He's still tipsy when he comes back home, just enough to maintain his laughter, his smile as he walks in to look at Rodney again, at what he wants and isn't ever going to have. Except. Except Rodney's vibrating with eagerness and confusion, dancing on the edge of his bed as he tries to make his words work, his brain stuttering around the ignominy of _asking_ for what John wants to give anyway.

So it's easy. It's so easy to brush the glitter off his cheeks, knees once again bruised and aching as he fumbles Rodney half-naked, legs spread, perfect cock trembling and hard, the perfect combination of driving lust and nervous confusion and John _wants_.

Takes.

Rodney's cock is just big enough, just thick enough, filling up all the cold, empty places inside John's mouth, the hidden places he never gives to anyone except like this. The taste of him is salty, bitter, addictive on his tongue as he sucks hard and fast because Rodney wants it, _John_ wants it, eager and rushed and when Rodney comes John does too, matching dampness on either side of his jeans, marking him for what he knows he is.

And now Rodney does, too.

He's always known that Rodney is a demanding bastard. Live with the man for five minutes, instead of the eight months John's enjoyed, and anyone would know that Rodney's a demanding bastard. It's no surprise to John that after the third time -- three is often a magic number with Rodney -- Rodney doesn't fumble through his request, doesn't babble or stammer or blush so appealingly.

He just lies there during the early, pre-dawn gloom and says, "I could do with a blow job."

And John goes, eager and already heavy-mouthed, crawling across the miles and miles between them because standing is too hard. He nuzzles Rodney open, sucking him filthy-wet and slow, not caring when Rodney grabs his head and positions him differently, riding along his tongue and throat, because that's good too. John comes wet and sticky against the side of Rodney's bed a full ten minutes before Rodney fills his mouth and by then, John's sure he could come again if he wanted to.

If Rodney wanted him to.

"Do all gay men like it this much?" They're in the bathroom, the only ones around this early, and Rodney's probably blushing fire red. It doesn't stop him from asking, though.

John looks down at his chest, thick and growing thicker by the day. Do gay men have to wax? Is it some kind of creed that he has to abide by? Maybe Rodney won't want him to. "Like what, blow-jobs?"

Rodney's just a disembodied voice, but his eye-roll comes in loud and clear. "Yes, because you're _eunuchs_. Idiot. I meant giving them."

John shrugs, reaching for his shirt. "I don't know. I don't know if it's a gay thing so much." He stops, but the words roll loud and thunderous through his mind: _so much as a me thing._

Because John loves to suck cock, will do anything within the limits of safety to find someone who can stay hard for an hour, more if John can learn their cues, until John's jaw aches and his sinuses feel funny and his chest is tight, head swimming from lack of continuous air. Rodney can probably stay hard, he thinks, running a palm-full of gel over his hair. He needs to get it cut.

Rodney exits the shower fully dressed but as he passes by John, he reaches up and tweaks a nipple. It's unexpected, un-prepareable because Rodney's never once indicated that he wants to touch _John_ , and aburptly his pants are way, way too tight.

"Huh. I wondered. So it's a you-thing."

That seems to be all the cue Rodney needs because suddenly Rodney isn't _asking_ , he's just taking. He'll loiter outside of John's classes, waiting for the regurgitation of students to pour out into the halls, deftly snagging John -- when nothing, ever, is deft about Rodney -- hustling him into a closet and shoving at his shoulders until John goes to his knees, mouth already open and ready and hot. Rodney usually fucks his face then, riding over lips and teeth hard, enjoying the barest hint of pain while John scrambles to keep his mouth wet and tight. He likes his balls touched then, cupped and squeezed lightly until he comes with a tiny, satisfied moan and is buttoning up before John's finished soaking his own pants, come still trickling down his chin.

After the labs or the library Rodney wants to talk, so John's allowed to go as slow as he wants, drawing it over calendar days, lush, luxurious sucking that leaves him unable to taste anything but the after-memory of Rodney's cock for half a day. John gets to lie down for these, tucked between Rodney's raised thighs as he bobs and makes _hm_ noises, wordlessly encouraging Rodney to speak and thrust and _speak_ until John so logged with words and come and yet more and more words that he has to change Rodney's sheets when he's out getting food or a shower, so Rodney doesn't have a wet-spot to sleep in.

Rodney's uncut, which John enjoys for novelty's sake, and the connoisseur in him relearns how to handle the head, the slightly more giving skin over the shaft. Lately, Rodney allows him to touch as well as suck, finding the right rhythms and speeds, working Rodney as expertly as John works himself, fingers flicking shadows onto the wall, bizarre animals and strange, perverted demons as he wrings orgasm after orgasm from Rodney.

John's almost constantly hard, lately, lips always swollen and red, body left aching because Rodney lets him suck, lets him touch and taste, but that's all they do. He's never sure if it's Rodney's reticence -- not that he has much -- or John's inability to show that he welcomes more, but either way John's losing his voice, raspy and rough and Rodney seems to like it.

"Shep!" Lorne smiles big and plastic when John jogs off the field, handing over a water bottle and towel as matter of course. "Hey, I was wondering if -- "

John shakes his head before he hears the full request. "Sorry, man, I'm busy tonight." Rodney has a test today, a presentation he's fuming about, and he'll want long and slow and throat-bruising afterward. John's mouth is already wet with anticipation, and he's constantly licking his lips. "Maybe sometime this weekend?"

Lorne cocks his head, narrow nose flaring in thought. "Yeah," he says. "Maybe. Hey, you know that you can say no, right?"

John lets an eyebrow go up, scrubbing beneath his chin. He needs to shave; Rodney doesn't mind stubble, but he's sandpaper-grade now. "Say no to what?"

Lorne watches for a moment, steady and dark like a hunting dog, assessing prey, before he nods and moves on. "Never mind. Hey, have fun."

John's grin twists happily. "I always do."

He's halfway back to the dorm when Rodney bustles into step next to him, red-faced and ranting, furious until abruptly he stops, hand freezing mid-air from its impatient _get on with it, open the door_ gesture John knows well. "Please don't take this as a criticism, but I'm not sure I -- that is, I think I should probably -- "

"Hey." It's easy to soothe Rodney, easy to calm him with words and a tilted head, and has been from day one. No one understands how he can put up with an obvious prima donna, which always makes John smirk and change the topic. Rodney's simple: he doesn't know how to take care of himself, doesn't _want_ to know how. So John does that, allows himself the pleasure of directing that part of Rodney's life, and now is no different. "It's okay."

It's not, Rodney claims, but as he's pushed back onto the bed, carefully stripped while John does the same, he starts tripping over his words, spooning them into incomprehensible gibberish. "Oh," he says, John working himself loose and slick while Rodney watches, blue eyes wide enough to hurt. "Um. You'll, ah, turn over? Is the phrase?"

John just smiles. He doesn't have to say he's been waiting, because he hasn't, really; it's Rodney's call, Rodney's show, and as Rodney pushes in too hard, too fast, just _right_ , John spreads his legs and holds on to the wall, slick where it isn't cracked under his fingers, taking each of Rodney's powerful, frantic, off-balance thrusts.

"Can I -- " His voice cracks. Swallowing, John lowers his shoulders, pushing back, while the head of Rodney's cock goes no where near his prostate, hot and slick-thick inside him. "I need -- can I -- "

Rodney's not a genius for nothing and he snorts. "Gay boys," he snaps, tone ruthless and annoyed, no matter that his hands were clammy against John's ass and hips. "If you're asking _me_ \-- "

"No!" John interrupts, freeing one bent, aching hand to curl around his cock, jerking hard and fast. "No, this is good. I got it. Oh, _god_."

"Do you like this?" Rodney sounds analytic, he always does during sex. "I mean, does it feel good?"

John moans, shifting just enough and oh, there, _there_. "Yeah, buddy. It feels good."

"It's so wrong to hear you call me that when I'm fucking your ass," Rodney says, and John instantly comes white and breathless.

The new pattern is established. John is at Rodney's beck and call, his own life, his own pursuits happily on hold as Rodney takes his ass, and mouth and hands. Sometimes it's brusque, almost impersonal, just a chance for Rodney to get off and go back to whatever he's doing that's more important. Sometimes it's longer, slower, Rodney's fingers gentle against John's cheeks and nose and eyebrows, scratching his scalp as his cock powers into John's throat, and John wants absolutely nothing more than this.

When Rodney stays over the summer, John does too, warming his bed and his desk and his lab when it's three am and Rodney can't wait, waking John up out of a sound sleep. John goes, every time, head always facing forward; he doesn't need to look back.


End file.
